What You Can't Fix
by Lady Calliope
Summary: [on hold] An exploration of a very complicated love story. Evey x V.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer**: V and Evey belong to Alan Moore, David Lloyd, and a host of other people richer than me. I'm just borrowing them.

**Borrowed Material: **The first quote is from Annie Proulx's short story, "Brokeback Mountain." The second quote is from Sean Farrell Moran's _Patrick Pearse and the Politics of Redemption: The Mind of the Easter Rising, 1916._

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**What You Can't Fix**

By Calliope

"_I wish I knew how to quit you."_

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I found something new to add to my book today. I wonder if anyone else has ever kept a record of things they'd like to discuss with a dead loved one. I'm sure I'm not the first. But I'm also sure that no one else has loved the way I've loved, has felt loss the way I've felt it. I don't know why I keep this scrapbook of reminders—I choke every time I add something to it. It physically hurts me, lacerates my lungs when I run my eyes over everything I've collected so far. But then I guess that's why I keep it. It's funny in a way: he's the only one that can evoke anything other than judgment or justice from my lips these days and he's been dead two years now. Is it considered necrophilia if you're in love with a dead man?

"_Without the slightest trace of irreverence but in all due humility and awe, we recognize that of us, as of mankind before Calvary, it may truly be said 'without the shedding of Blood there is no Redemption.'"_

My pen trips over the word "Blood" and the first two letters look smashed into one. No matter, I'm the only one that will read it. I found the quote while sifting through one of the countless piles of books in the Shadow Gallery; it was from a psycho-political biography of Patrick Pearse. The story of this one man had drawn me in before I even realized the thoughts I was thinking weren't my own. He reminded me so much of V: a single man who believed in a dream of something better for his people and sacrificed everything to ignite the flames of passion and change within them. He knew exactly what would happen after the Easter Rising of 1916 in Dublin, knew he would be arrested and executed by firing squad. Yet that knowledge was what fueled him on, it was precisely what he wanted—a blood sacrifice, a clear path to Redemption for his people. The story was a far cry from the ones I had V read to me during my first stay here, but I suppose it's only a natural evolution. Political treatises and biographies interest me now—I moved beyond fairy tales the second that train left the station carrying his body. But the science of government, the studies of people who've failed or succeeded to change it, are things that can help me.

V left us with a fresh start, a second chance, but he also left us with a pile of rubble that needed to be built up into something new, something that helped encourage the _vox populi_ and not subdue it. He was correct, like always, when he said it was my generation that would make right the wrongs of the past. I guess I just never really realized, never really appreciated, how many wrongs there were to right. My role seems comedic compared to his: the slow beauracracy required to create a new order was laughable when held against the swift and sure action required to destroying an old one. In a way I feel like I've failed him because what we're creating is not what he wanted—but anarchy is a great leap from dictatorship and we needed first to build the bridges along the way.

I think he would understand.

So that leaves me here, in my inherited home, clipping pictures and writings and copying quotes into what I'm sure is a very costly blank leather-bound book. In case my nightwishes and dreams ever solidify to a point where I can talk to them, maybe I'll be able to find out whether or not he admired people like Patrick Pearse. I'd also like to know what his favorite food and kind of tea were so I write that down in order not to forget. It's silly really, being in love with a dead man that I hardly know, but he shared with me his most precious gift—absolute freedom—and everything else he had besides. I never saw his face, never touched his skin, but I was in love with him then and still am. And I know that he would tell me the face behind the mask is not who he is because he is an idea and ideas don't have a face. But I fell in love with the man before I ever fell in love with the idea, and in the end all I'm left with is the one of the two that I can't put into words, can't laugh with or make love to. The world will always remember the idea, but I will always remember the man.

I'll need to buy some more rubber cement in the morning. I also want to read _The Count of Monte Cristo_ for the seventeenth time—the movie always makes me yearn for the original story. Speaking of which…

"_Find your own tree!"_

I hear his voice echoing Edmund Dantes's as if I was watching it for the first time. He did care about the idea more than the girl, but that doesn't mean he didn't care about her at all. He loved her very much.

When I taste salt in my mouth I know it's time to go to bed. I always hate it when movies make me cry.

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**Author's Note: **I think I'm going to make this into a multi-chapter story, but I'm not sure if the rest of it will be in the same point of view; I might switch it to third person or something. In any case, because this is _my_ story, I'm going to commit an outright offense against Alan Moore: I'm bringing V back from the dead.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer**: V and Evey belong to Alan Moore, David Lloyd, and a host of other people richer than me. I'm just borrowing them.

**Author's Note: **So I've decided this story is going to be skipping around a bit in time. Some chapters will take place post-Parliament explosion and some before and some during. Perspectives will also be shifting a lot within the chapters. Also, though I adore the comic and read it before I ever knew they were making movie, I'm sticking to movie-verse because it's more accessible to the average reader.

**Borrowed Material: **The poem in the beginning is "Eros, After the Burn" and is penned by the talented Andy Young. I would never claim credit for something so beautiful. There is also a quote later on from the movie _Lost in Space _(points to anyone who knows which one).

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**What You Can't Fix  
**By Calliope

_Stay away. Stay out of my dreams.  
__I don't want to know you are human.  
__You who smell of rock and loam,  
__laced with copper and thick with dust.  
__Why did you have to look at me,  
__after tasting me temple to toe? I must  
__forget your body, with its hidden honey,  
__its delicate temples of skin.  
__ It is cold and dim,  
__the way you spoke of December,  
__and my shoulder still aches from the burn.  
__Every night you float before me,  
__your face aflame in the lamp like an ember.  
__I want you more than cherries._

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Is her skin as soft as it looks? Are her lips as passionate when engaged in things other than speech? Are her eyes as fiery when she's crawling up the bed towards a lover?

Thoughts like these have plagued my mind every day since Evey Hammond first entered my life so many months ago. At first I tried to push them from my thoughts as any gentleman would: she was my guest, my friend, and above all someone whom I respected and cherished. It was disgusting to me that I should think of her in such terms, especially considering the circumstances under which we met that fateful November 5th. I had rescued her from men who wanted to do to her what I have grown to desire every time she looks at me. What irritated me further was the fact that I had, for so long, thought myself incapable of such feelings and…reactions. I can't remember the last time I'd responded to any other woman in such a fashion, but then Evey is no ordinary woman—I smile thinking of how I never used to let myself call her such. In the beginning I tried reminding myself, every time my eyes would linger a little too long on her flushed face or dry lips, that she was no woman but a mere girl. I was her senior by at least ten years—she was twelve during the worst of the Reclamation when her parents had been taken, when I'd been interred at Larkhill. She was still young and wide-eyed and scared, just like she is now.

But suppressing the urge to dwell upon less than gentlemanly thoughts only increased my desire over time to express them physically. Eventually I realized that I would suffer something much worse than death if I didn't allow myself some outlet, some indulgence. Better that I enact the fantasies in my mind rather than try to bring them to life with her. It was not worth risking everything I had with her simply because I could not completely control my baser instincts. But my hands are too rough and jagged to entertain even the merest flicker of imagination that it is her, not I, soothing and coaxing my pleasure.

This flesh, this face, these muscles, are not who I am. What I am, what anybody is, remains intangible even to myself. You cannot touch the soul, the idea of a person; you can only try to understand it and keep it in your pocket whenever you're with the person. And yet, though I cannot recall what I looked like before Larkhill, this body is all I have, physically, to present to the outside world. It used to disgust me, this rotting skin that covered my entire body, but I have long learned to embrace it as part of what I am—a living reminder of this government's war crimes. Until Evey I never thought to question beyond that conclusion, but these thoughts that I hate myself for shove my monstrous body into close, painful contrast with her lovely one. Something as ugly as I has no business desiring something as unattainable as she. Yet if I do not maintain this form and train it my dream, my purpose, my vendetta cannot be completed. But the body can only be rigorously controlled to a certain extent until it eventually, like a being entirely separate from your person, acts on its own volition to save itself, to supply itself with what it needs. I both curse and bless this flesh that allows me to feel her warmth, smile at her humor, and cry at her beauty.

The mornings are especially difficult. When she stumbles into the kitchen, sleep still written on her features, hair mussed, in a flattering tank top and shorts that bare miles of flawless skin—all on display only for me, my own private showing—I make an effort to face the stove so I can prepare myself for the onslaught. I do not make a point of keeping the temperature in the gallery at a suitable degree for wearing t-shirts and skirts and dresses—I always worry that she will be cold—but she either ignores the slightly chilled air of the Underground or simply doesn't care. Perhaps she was too afraid to wear such things Above for the attention they would direct her way. In any case, I'm not one to abstain from such delights if freely given. I like to think that my aprons give her some measure of satisfaction equal to what I feel when she softly enquires how I slept. I only wear the silly things to make her smile, to make her less afraid of me.

And there's the crux of my situation. In her eyes, no matter how comfortable she seems around me or how much she seems to care about me, I will always be a monster. I'm a killer, a madman, a criminal with a plan and I know that she carries that at the back of her mind, always. One day she may come to trust me completely, to learn that I am not what she should fear, that she should fear nothing at all except the loss of herself. But that day is in the future yet, and until then I'm left with her face torturing me in candlelight visions as I close my eyes against the burn.

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I must be going mad. That's the only explanation for it. Attraction to something, or someone, so terrifying and vengeful must be a symptom of madness.

Yet even as I think it I know it's bollocks. He used to terrify me with his determination and mercilessness, but that was a world away. That was before I went Underground and discovered exactly what this government had been keeping from me. That was before I got to know the man behind the mask.

Some of the best conversations of my life have been with a terrorist. How's that for an autobiographical account? He is everything that I imagined a Prince Charming to be: witty, funny, gentle, patient, understanding, intelligent; a gentleman and a scholar; a mysterious and handsome figure. Wait, _handsome_? I've never even seen his face! I really must be going out of my mind.

Yet I know I'm not wrong. Oh, if his hands are any indication he's terribly deformed, so badly burned his skin resembles a dry, red desert more than human flesh. But he is the embodiment of handsome—he moves with such grace, speaks with such elegance, and makes every gesture so sensual there's no denying it. I may be mad, but fittingly I find myself drawn more and more to a madman. I am addicted to his touch, to his voice, and find myself inventing excuses or situations just so I can brush his warmth or feel the smooth, cool touch of his gloved hand on my skin. Some of my favorite memories, the ones that make my skin burn, are when I know he's watching me, watching me move. I get that feeling especially in the mornings when I practically fall into my chair wearing my pajamas—if he's willing to take me in and cook for me I figure I can at least repay him by showing him I'm comfortable enough to wear whatever I feel like around him. Every time it happens, though, every time I feel like his eyes are seeing things that no man has ever seen, I have to restrain the shiver that runs down my spine. My mother would be ashamed at the thoughts I entertain some nights.

But I will never act on any of this. Although I no longer try as hard to dissuade myself from my attraction, I have never forgotten for a moment what he's done. He's blown up a building, killed several men, killed Lewis Prothero! He's a murderer, a terrorist, and though I no longer fear him I know I cannot let him kill any more people if there's something I can do to stop him. My father used to say "you cannot kill the man without becoming the monster" and I fear he's turning into more of a monster with each passing day. I have to get out, I have to escape, but I've have to bide my time and wait for the opportunity to present itself. A week ago I lied to his face about wanting to help him—sharing secrets that no one save myself knew in the process—and whether or not he believed me he's giving me a chance. I hate myself for the betrayal I'm going to commit, but I've seen too much blood spilt already. If I can save even one life then I have to try.

I just wish my chest didn't hurt so badly whenever I think about it.

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"Do you remember everything?"

"To the letter."

"That's my girl. I knew you would be perfect for this."

Silence for a few blocks. The thong she wore was far from comfortable.

"V?"

"Yes?"

"Do I really have to wear this?"

"The Bishop is a discerning man with discerning tastes. I'm afraid there is no other way."

"Oh. I understand. Yes, of course."

A moment later a weight settled onto her shoulders and fell down her back. She recognized the soft material of his cape on her bare arms. Her chest constricted so tightly she couldn't breathe.

"Th…thank you."

"You're most welcome."

Then, under his breath, so soft she didn't quite understand it. "Anything for you."

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**tbc **

**Author's Note: **This was originally going to be a much longer chapter but I realized I would have to cover too much ground to get where I wanted to be. Oh, and as a warning, somewhere in the next few chapters there will be some heavy lime (maybe lemon? I've never written it, though I've read it, so I'm a little afraid to.) So look for a rating change in the near future.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer**: V and Evey belong to Alan Moore, David Lloyd, and a host of other people richer than me. I'm just borrowing them.

**Author's Note: **Beware perspective and time shifts. Also, please take notice of the rating change! Don't read if you're not of age, please. Sorry for the shortness of it all.

**Borrowed Material: **The quote in the beginning is from the movie _The English Patient_.

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**What You Can't Fix  
**By Calliope

_The heart is an organ of fire._

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His fingers trailed fire over her skin, igniting the flesh with the lightest of touches. Her chest was heaving, a thin layer of sweat glistening in the pale lamplight. She knew she should be conscious of the noise but at the moment couldn't bring herself to care about anything beyond the pleasure she was feeling. His tongue traced a path between her breasts, following the smooth line the muscles in her abdomen provided him, until he explored somewhere entirely new. She cried out with the discovery and the jolt his ministrations sent through her spine: her head was going to explode if she kept this up.

Whispered words in her ear, a strangled answer from her throat, and she gasped anew: he completely filled her, stretched her in ways that brought both pain and pleasure. It had been a long time since she had last taken a lover to her bed and her body wouldn't let her forget it. Thankfully the unpleasant sensations quickly gave over to the nicer ones, and soon he was pumping in and out of her with excruciating rhythms—sometimes slower in pace then suddenly fast and wild. She couldn't hold on much longer; the tingling pressure was already settling in her lower body. Suddenly hands were on her breasts again, kneading and tweaking and massaging while the rhythm he had so worked to maintain feel to shambles: he was pumping in and out of her as hard and fast as her body would allow. The combined sensations finally sent her over the edge and she whimpered his name as wave after wave of blissful release shook her body.

She lay there silently as the minutes ticked by, attempting to regain her breath and slow her heart rate. Her senses were acutely tuned to the world outside her door—hopefully her fantasy hadn't disturbed V's much needed slumber. Aside from the fact that she would feel rather guilty for waking him, more pressing was the embarrassment that heated her cheeks at the prospect of being discovered. She didn't quite know how she would explain to him what the loud noises were if he should burst in suspecting some sort of attack. However, her fears subsided as another ten minutes went by and no black-clad figure appeared in her doorway.

Some secret part of her thought that was quite disappointing.

Sighing, she busied herself with fixing and readjusting her clothes. For someone as used to contact with other people as Evey Hammond, months of living Underground had finally begun to take their toll. It wasn't that she didn't enjoy and cherish her time with V or that she preferred the world above to the world below: she just missed the constant interactions. Evey was far from vain but knew herself to be no ugly duckling—she missed the double-takes the office interns gave her when she walked by and the occasional flirting conversation with a waiter. There had never been many men in her life, but Evey found herself longing for the physical side of relationships she had experienced and come to enjoy. After all, there was only so much pent-up frustration she could handle at the unaware hands of a very alluring man.

Her inner monologue, still riding the glowing after effects of her actions, began wondering if the object of her desires and affections was enduring a fraction of what she was. He was burned all over, of that Evey was certain, but he functioned quite normally. Just because he was injured didn't mean that he was no longer a man. Her mind recounted all the times he would immediately turn to face the stove when she entered the kitchen in nothing but a tank top and shorts. A smirk found its way to her lips at the thought. _Serves him right!_

Her eyes wandered the now-familiar settings in her room. The idea that this dank cave had become more of a home to her than her old apartment made her smile. Eventually, her gaze came to rest on the tattered calendar on her nightstand: V had procured it for her after she told him what trouble she was having keeping track of the days with no stars or moon to guide her. According to the heading emblazoned across the cardboard backing, it had originated at the offices of one _Dr. James Hochwalt, M.D., Family Physician, _but where V had actually managed to secure it was beyond her guess. Her entire conscious sobered at the realization of what day it was, or rather, what day it would be in two days.

_Remember, Evey, this is your best chance to get out of here and save a life in the same shot! _As hard as she tried she could not completely block out the nausea that came with that knowledge: she would have to betray V. But her convictions wouldn't allow her to deter herself from the chosen path. Whether he wanted it or not, V needed saving, and Evey wasn't about to give up on him.

Suddenly a groaning of pipes and old walls assaulted her inner thoughts. _Why on Earth would V be taking a shower at 3:31 in the morning?_

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_Damn that woman and damn these walls and damn this ventilation system! _

Cold water washed over skin that had been burning hot not ten minutes ago. He turned the nozzle even more until it felt like he was bathing in a glacier run-off. Nothing less could purge the images that invaded his mind as a result of the noises he had overheard. His aching muscles protested the icy water. This was by far the most difficult part of living with such a beautiful, engaging woman!

At first he thought she was being attacked, unlikely as it was in his Underground home. But nothing was rational where Evey Hammond was concerned. He had flown to her door, ready to bang his fist through the thick wood if need be, and would have if he hadn't taken a moment to collect his instincts. It was then that he heard her cry out in something far from pain or alarm. A quick retreat to his room did nothing to assuage his reactions or thoughts: he had discovered that the old ventilation system, though barely functioning, doubled as an excellent intercom of sorts. It had taken every ounce of control he possessed not to run back to her and replace those undistinguishable moans with cries of his name. This was an entirely new kind of torture, the only one he was thankful the scientists at Larkhill hadn't used.

What seemed like an eternity later, the Shadow Gallery was once again silent. V's heart, and other parts of him, however, was far from calm. Did she have even the slightest inkling of what she did to him on a daily basis? Knowing that sleep would be evasive that night, he got up to do the one thing that would put an end to this hot-bloodedness.

Finally, after standing under the constant spray for ten minutes, V opened his eyes. His hands were planted on the wall in front of him, his entire body leaning on them for support. Inevitably, his eyes were drawn to them. His hands…

Not even the freezing water had put out the flames as quickly as one look at his skin. Quickly, he turned the faucet off. He closed his eyes to the rest of his body: it was never meant to be.

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_V…I'm so sorry! _

"I had to!"

"Evey!"

His pained shout follows me out the door, through the hallway, and down the stairs. I don't realize I'm holding my breath until I hit the cool night air and gasp at the change. With one last glance at the open window high above me, I run. I have only a vague idea of where I'm running to, but I know exactly what I'm running from:

The one man who's shown me more, given me more, and made me feel more than I ever thought possible.

I thought I was saving him, thought I was also saving an innocent life. A bishop! What a joke. He was a man more at home in a kiddy porn shop than in front of an altar. And now V…I made a terrible mistake, and I'll never have the chance to fix it. He won't ever let me back into his home, now. That is, if he lives through this mess that I've created.

I have to keep running, though. Almost there. Running is all I have left now. I chose running over him.

I'm such a coward.

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**tbc**


End file.
